The Gringotts Affair
by Bone White Butterfly
Summary: A relationship that shouldn't have happened: It began the day Draco decided to take home a Weasley. A greedy goblin, morals or the lack thereof, and a surprise visit by Voldemort swiftly made matters worse, and suddenly they were in it together. DMBW
1. A Terrible Bargain

_I'm breaking my vow not to start posting a piece before finishing...because my computer died, the hard drive (and 3 BIG finished pieces) could be gone forever, and I need some serious cheering up to even continue on. With luck, the store will have good news and there will be a shiny new story out soon, but...just please cross your fingers for me?_

_A note on slash: I do love men...but more importantly, I love myself. Therefore, __I can never condone unfair bashing of my fair sex in a M/M story. Every man is not gay. Women are not a sorry, conniving race of vain, cruel, heartless beasts...even in high school. __Figure out a legitimate breakup excuse, people.  
_

* * *

The Gringotts Affair

o0|0o

It was early June, nearly in the hundreds, humid as hell, and Bill Weasley was savoring every hair-curling moment of it. Compared to Egypt's sometimes deadly East Bank, Diagon Alley was a lovely, cool oasis, complete with ice cream parlors. There was not a speck of sand outside of an hourglass anywhere, and the shopping district had a strict policy against rampaging hippopotamuses.

Charlie would fight him to the death on this, but the eldest son of the Weasleys of Ottery St. Catchpole would rather be in close quarters with a dragon after his skin any day of the week if it kept him safely away from a sedately bathing hippo. The things were vicious, territorial man-killers, and they absorbed spells. With a shudder, Bill recalled an incident involving a wand-happy idiot on an excavation in the delta. It had led to his fleeing through reeds as the bull at his back came roaring after, exploding everything it touched because there were five blasting curses trapped in its blubbery, puce-colored hide.

'_I'll take the dragon every day of the week and twice on Sundays,'_ he thought to himself with a shudder.

The irony of that thought would not long escape him.

o0|0o

As he strolled back into the bank after lunch, Bill began to harden himself and his hearing against the angry, flustered voices within. Gringotts had been running an insane sort of amok ever since the Dark Lord's return hit the public awareness. It was instinctual, Bill supposed, to want to stockpile resources and gold and hide behind foot-thick wards in such dark times, but the Goblins were not amused and not having any of it. Strict security measures on withdrawals—for "safety's sake"—had successfully discouraged all but the most panicky, and wizardry's wealth remained largely in Gringotts' subterranean vault network.

The goblin's other goal, keeping the public happy and content, involved providing a friendlier face of the bank. Now, anyone who has seen the characteristic needle-toothed smile knows that goblin features are distinctly unfriendly and in fact quite terrifying. Goblins themselves were well aware, so the beings got creative.

A beam of light lanced in from the banks' door, illuminating Fleur Delacour's golden hair. About half the bank, including Bill, sighed collectively.

Hiring the Beauxbatons Beauty for the front desk was probably the best PR move in history. Bill certainly wasn't complaining with the Goblin's tactics...mostly. A few weeks ago he had found himself transferred from a promising dig in the Nubian province to Gringotts London effective immediately. The reason? Studies showed bronzed, broad-shouldered redheads with blunt white teeth were popular with the witching crowd.

Bill felt a bit like cattle, being moved around without a say so, but complaining was futile. His contract wasn't up for renegotiation for a while yet, and at least the money was better, he hadn't risked his neck on the job in months, he was with his family—and then there was of course the perk called Delacour.

"Bill! Darling!" Fleur called as if on cue from her desk. Unfortunately, that wasn't the good Darling, but the hippo at six o'clock Darling. Already dreading where this was going, he walked over to his 19-year-old girlfriend. She gave him her trademark zinger of a smile once he was in range. "Thank you. Bill? The monsieur has exacting needs for ze handling of his accounts today. I feel some with better English would understand…ze subtleties? We want no misunderstandings in such delicate matters, non?"

Bill paused to translate that in his head. _'I can't be paid enough to handle zis pompous dick. Get him away from me or you can get used to ze company of your right hand, Darling.'_ Hippo at six o'clock, indeed. "You're absolutely right, Fleur," he responded quickly with a smile. "Good day sir, I will be assisting you, Mr…"

He tore his eyes from Fleur to address the "monsieur," whom he had ignored in favor of the buxom quarter veela until then. Selective attention was a situational hazard with Fleur, but so long as the ignored male party was affected as well, he figured he couldn't be called out on it.

The uplifted blonde eyebrow aimed at him suggested otherwise. Bill blinked, taking in the rest of the man…boy. Narrow, sharp features pervaded the teenager's features. Even the lips looked capable of cutting glass. The Weasley in him bristled instinctually.

"Draco Malfoy," the boy provided without preamble. "Mr.—I'm going to take a stab in the dark here—_Weasley_, if we might retire to a place more private than your bank's foyer."

Bill threw Fleur a 'Darling, you owe me _big'_ look, to which she batted her eyelashes, before saying through gritted teeth, "Please follow me. Sir."

o0|0o

"Merlin," Bill breathed, unable to stop himself when the Malfoy account book slammed down onto the conference table with a reverberating thud. It was enormous. Two feet along the spine, four feet wide, and at least six inches thick. Bill could honestly say he had seen tombs with smaller cover stones.

"That's your book?" he couldn't help but ask disbelievingly.

Malfoy glanced up from his chair with a chilled look that gave Fleur's a run for its money. "This one covers the activity of the business accounts from January the First of this year."

That took a moment to register. After it did, Bill was fairly sure something in his brain broke. "Ah. Of course," he managed.

The boy rolled his eyes. "Well, sit down. Be useful. I take it that you are actually an accountant and not just very pretty window dressing." He returned his attention to the book with an expectant air, only to swivel back to Bill a few moments later. He took in the vivid flush of the man's face with a look of equal parts incredulity and exasperation.

"…Unbelievable." He paused, breathed deeply, and seemed to be gathering his thoughts before he straightened and stated, "Mr. Weasley, judging from your reaction to the size of this account book, I take it you have gained some tiny inkling of just how important my family's interests are to this bank."

Malfoy stood and casually came up to him. Despite being over a head taller, Bill had to fight an urge to take a hasty step back. The boy icily continued, sounding not so much like a teenager as like a dagger-tongued Mephistopheles. "You work with goblins, Mr. Weasley, so I'm sure you know what they will do to you if more cashflow _than your pretty little head can fathom…_were to just walk out the door?" He smiled at the bobbing apple in Bill's throat. Goblin policy was dismemberment, and they both knew it. "So if I were to give you ten minutes to return here with a qualified account advisor…your best, be it a creature as ugly as sin or a damned mudblood, I have complete faith that you would give it your very best effort." With that, he turned his back to Bill, returned to his seat, and ordered without looking, "Move."

Eight minutes later, the Goblin Hoprik and Draco Malfoy exchanged a low bow and an incline of the head in greeting respectively while Bill hung around uncertainly in the doorway. The redhead silently vowed to kill Fleur for dumping this situation on him. That promise only became more fervent when the pureblood and the gnarled senior manager broke into a conversation of rapid French.

'_Grasp of English, my arse,'_ he growled in his head.

Deciding the best option was to get the hell out now that he wasn't needed, Bill sketched a slight bow and backed out into the hall. Then, before he could turn and flee, Malfoy's voice caught him. "Tea. Rooibos, with lemon, if you please. ZangCha with one sugar and warm milk would suffice in a pinch."

Mouth agape, Bill turned back towards the room he had nearly successfully vacated. The spoiled brat was completely absorbed in the spread of paperwork set before him. What made him pale and scurry off towards the kitchenette was a tight look of Hoprik's that promised pounds of flesh. He detoured only slightly, grabbing Fleur from what surely was a scintillating conversation with a strapping young account holder. "You're too good for her, he told the blushing 12-year-old before absconding with the French witch to the depths of Gringotts.

o0|0o

"Malfoy, I should tell you," he informed Fleur later as he slammed a saucer down on a tray, "is very fluent in French. And now I have the goblin who hired the goblin who hired me out for my blood if the little "monsieur" so much as sniffs, so thank you much, Darling."

He grasped the handles of the tray and lifted, only for Fleur to snatch his wrists and push it back onto the counter. They stared off at each other in the empty, dark kitchenette. With a pinched look, she finally made a dismissive gesture over the contents of the tray. There was a solitary teacup, a pot, and a half lemon placed on the saucer. Clearly appalled, she told him, "I would not give zis to a grindylow. Never mind a personage!"

"He's the spoiled baby brat of an incarcerated Death Eater, not a _personage,"_ Bill hissed, butchering her accent on the last word.

"Is he important to the goblins, yes or no?"

He glared.

Taking it as his answer, she continued, "Do you wish to live to see my bed tonight? If so, zen give ze spoiled_ bébé ____a proper tea." Putting it that way… _"Now, what did want? I am only doing zis once, so pay attention."

Bill sighed. "Lemon…and something. Ruy-bos?"

Fleur, peeking into the kettle, commented shrilly, "Zis tea is black!"

"Tea does tend to be, Fleur."

She made a sound of exasperation, dumped the pot into the sink, summoned a series of tins from a low cabinet, and started prying them open. "Cut ze lemon into six pieces, lengthwise and put zem in a small bowl. A bowl from zere." She pointed at a display under glass. Bill looked dubiously at the fragile, gold-rimmed, and very translucent china set but complied.

Fleur elbowed him out of the way not soon after, muttering about hopelessness and death wishes. A loose blend of tea leaves and needle-shaped seeds accompanied by dried blueberries, lemongrass, and rosehips went into the pots' screened upper half in generous amounts. From her wand poured a boiling variant of _aguamenti_ into the pot. Promptly, she shifted to arrange a plate of shortbreads and sweetmeats. These, along with Bill's meager offering of lemon wedges (which Fleur immediately jacketed in silk—silk!), were placed on a hammered silver tray she had summoned from Merlin knew where. Rounding it off was an array of petite silverware folded in a napkin, preserves, honey, and a steaming damp hand towel embossed with the bank's insignia.

Any doubts about Beauxbatons' pretentiousness were forever silenced in his mind. He glanced around the small, dingy room, wondering where she had found half of the items present.

Fleur coughed discretely, pointing at her watch.

And so, with his girlfriend's dubious blessing and preemptive eulogy rolled into one and a peck on the cheek, Bill hefted the heavy spread. Heartily wishing he were elsewhere, he made his way back to the conference room where the spoiled dragon lurked. Strange as it sounded, he was even beginning to long for 130-degree weather and hippo-infested waters.

o0|0o

Good Rooibos tea, Bill learned from his spot in the corner of the room, was a vivid red. Which explained Fleur's initial reaction to the ink-black tea, but come now. That just was not right and bordered on downright creepy.

The tea wasn't the consistency of blood, but his brain was bored to death and thus quite willing to grasp at very scraggly straws. Under the watchful eye of Hoprik, he dutifully conjured boiling water into the pot after every two cups but otherwise spent the rest of the afternoon pretending to be an unobtrusive red splotch on the dark gray wall. There was nothing to do but watch as the two nattered on in languages not English. Comparing the red tea to blood was one of the tamer thoughts that flew through his head as time went by.

He was about ready to give into the fantasy and punch the boy's lights out when Malfoy finally slipped a silver watch from a waist-pocket and summed it up succinctly: "Shit."

"The bank is closing shortly," the goblin said.

'_Thank. Merlin.'_

The blonde gave the accounts book a tired, measuring look. "I need to take this with me. Review it overnight."

"That, I am afraid, is not possible." It was the closest thing to a sneer that Hoprik had given Malfoy all day.

Malfoy pursed his lips in response. He sighed, "And, I take it, even I will not be permitted to stay here after banking hours?"

"Regrettably," the goblin confirmed. "The book must be guaranteed safe by a Gringotts' representative at all times. The goblins that guard our entrances do not make house calls." Bill tilted his head slightly to the left. There was a loophole in that statement. Goblins didn't do that, except on purpose and only to their own benefit. He shifted as well, suddenly uneasy, though he couldn't say why.

Malfoy considered the goblin calmly. "When you say representative, would any Gringotts employee suffice?" he asked, voice soft and delicate.

Hoprik nodded. "Yes. However, it would have to be one in recent proximity to the book, to limit possible exposure of sensitive material, of course." After that, the being gave a needle smile. Even after years of working around goblins, Bill couldn't suppress a small shudder at the sight.

The boy remained completely composed, offering back a bright, toothy smile of his own. "Of course. And I can safely assume your independent consulting fee along with the odd hours would be obscenely expensive." He jerked a thumb at Bill. "What about him, then? He has been "in proximity" to the book just as long, and surely your wives won't take kindly to your absence?"

Hoprik blinked, agog, clearly unprepared for that possibility. Finally, grudgingly, with a look to Bill, he admitted, "That would be…permissible."

Except for the part where it really wasn't. Bill opened his mouth to pipe up and say no way in hell was going to babysit a book overnight at Malfoy manor, especially when he had a hot girlfriend who owed him for this shit.

Swifter, Malfoy turned to Hoprik and in all seriousness offered the goblin, "Thirty galleons, for the night."

Hoprik countered immediately, "900EG. Weasley is a talented curse breaker with a proven track record of deterring robbers and other threats." I.e. hippos. "It would be unconscionable to loan his services for less than their proper value."

To which Malfoy scoffed, "You are currently employing him as a glorified greeter. And to suggest that my ancestral home's wards would permit a thief entry…sir goblin, don't insult me. Eighty. I would go up to ninety, but the feeding and watering will come of my pocket."

"Feeding him is your choice, not my prerogative. This is a highly unusual twisting of the bank's by-laws. 500EG." The goblin laughed. "You should be lucky I am willing to permit it, even for you, sir."

"Five hundred galleons? For a pretty piece of window dressing to spend a night in my home? One hundred, and not a knut more."

"Ninety, then, for the protection detail of the book," Hoprik offered, paused, then added, "and for the window dressing…an additional twenty."

Now Malfoy looked amused. "Only twenty more?"

"Per hour, starting five o'clock tonight until the book is returned. Twenty is, I believe, the going rate in Knockturn these days? Though I will of course make inquiries with the local whore house should you insist on an accurate amount."

Bill had been slack jawed and blinking rapidly since Malfoy had coolly mentioned feeding and watering him like livestock. His senior manager stooping so low as to pimp him, though, finally ignited the infamous Weasley fire in his brain. Damn Malfoy and damn goblin retribution. If they wanted to dismember him, they were welcome to try.

Drawing up, he snarled, "Fuck you!"

o0|0o

Draco felt his lips twist as Weasley finally snapped. He had honestly been expecting that explosion four hours ago. It had been amusing, though, to watch the man fight against his choleric nature so valiantly for so long. Draco did feel a twinge of annoyance that it had been the fetid-smelling and glint-eyed goblin to ultimately elicit the reaction, but he let it pass. He had much more important things to do than to rile up Gryffindor hotheads.

And yet…

He first caught Weasley's heated gaze before giving the man a lazy once over. Grinning with an exaggerated lasciviousness, he laughed, "Deal," and shook hands with the goblin to the sounds of repeated and rather creative protest.

* * *

_Story Alert and Stay Tuned for our next installment: _

_A confidentialty contract, a peek into Malfoy manor, and a Dark Lord all spell toil and trouble for our hapless Bill Weasley._


	2. Contractual Obligations

The Gringotts Affair  
Part II

* * *

Bill was Gryffindor. Bill was a Weasley son. Bill was, incongruously, well versed in the art of running.

Four seconds after hands shook over his selling price, he was gone and down the crooked black hall. Of course, not soon after, Hoprik appeared from a hip-high doorway and cornered him. The goblin looked distinctly unhappy.

"You are to go with Mr. Malfoy," he was told.

To which he retorted, "I am not do anything of the sort."

"You are under contract."

"Not with you, and not for _that._ Good day, sir!" Bill stormed past the goblin, only to crash to his knees, clutching at his chest as pain wound about him like a vice. He slumped to one side, cracking his head on the wall. Hoprik, suddenly looking so tall, sneered above him. "With Rikah of Egypt and therefore with me. And you are under Goblin contract, Mr. Weasley, for "services most profitable," not for those which do not offend your tender wizard sensibilities. Need I give you a better reminder of the consequences for breaking with contract?"

The burning pressure tightened into agony. A trapped scream gurgled in his throat. Finally, the Goblin unclenched his glowing fist. Bill sucked in precious air. "Report to the carriage entrance at five o'clock sharp or consider yourself terminated," he was ordered.

Bill didn't doubt for a second that Hoprik meant that literally. Tears of pain pricked his eyes. And damn it all. This was why his mother had pitched a fit when he informed the family of his goblin dealings. He himself had always thought the horror stories whispered among the human employees were bunk. Prejudice, he scoffed. Goblins had done a world of good for him.

See if he ever gave the benefit of the doubt to anything every again.

Coughing, he picked himself off the floor. The senior manager was long gone, off to tasks more profitable. He staggered down the empty hall to find a human-sized men's loo.

As he splashed water from the pitcher onto his face, he focused on breathing and ignoring the pouty-lipped brunette boy that looked at him in alarm. He looked a sorry state, yes, but that was no call for being rude.

Staring into the mirror, his thoughts went back to the contract he had signed seven years ago and the sordid details surrounding it. He hadn't been a specialist of any sort then, just a destitute kid straight out of school on a Hogwarts scholarship willing to sign anything if it gave him a chance at a future. Luck hadn't been with him. He had gone to almost two-dozen parties of friends and acquaintances celebrating their new gainful employments before the realization of his predicament truly set in.

He was a Hogwarts graduate. One couldn't just start scooping ice cream at Fortescue's after getting handed a degree of that caliber. (He'd tried. The owner hired a day-schooler and kindly suggested a boy with his education train under a master chef.) Unfortunately, his family was too poor to afford an apprenticeship and not well connected enough in the ministry at the time to land Bill a position. Arthur Weasley had bankrupted the meager family fortune in supporting the war effort, and it had never really recovered.

Living with his parents the September after graduation had all but killed him. To this day he could remember in vivid detail the once blissful couple's screaming rows in the kitchen over trivial budget expenses like eggs and sugar. Ronnie and little Gin would end up in room on those nights, and they would huddle together on his rickety bed. He would silencio the door and the vents to muffle the shouts and tell stories of Babbity Rabbity and Harry Potter until he was the only one awake in the room. Then, over the sound of their soft breathing, he would listen to the arguments still coming softly through the thin walls.

The night his parents admitted to themselves that Bill was becoming a burden was the night before he went job searching in Knockturn.

As he wandered the street at dusk, peering at notices nailed on door, he had found himself propositioned by streetwalkers several times. He reckoned he would have been pick-pocketed several times, too, had there been anything to take. He almost was attacked by an alley-gang, but then a prostitute had attached herself to his side and they decided they didn't fancy taking on her pimp.

Bill didn't blame them. The vampire that had emerged from the shadows had the shoulders of a minotaur. Once the thugs were gone, he made a point of detaching from the woman quickly and apologizing, "No money."

"I had deduced," the creature had replied. Vampires had a way of searing their way into one's soul forever. This one, a flat-planed male that looked like it had ridden with Ghengis Kahn, had certainly done so to Bill. "Would you like money?" it asked, and then repeated the proposition in blunter terms when he only blinked stupidly.

How long they stared at each other in the dark street corner, Bill would never know. "I…I don't want to," he had finally stuttered, to which the vampire remarked,

"It's a rare one that wants to. But it is good money. Come with me."

Bill liked to think that he would have had the strength to say no and apparate home, had Rikah not interrupted then. But interrupt she did.

"Those cufflinks, iz a Hogwarts crest, yes?" she had asked in a heavy accent, leaning on a nearby lamppost. A goblin maid in a cloak, iron-studded boots, and corkscrewing gold piercings, she had barely come up to Bill's hip and still managed to look too dangerous to cross.

She took his self-conscious picking at his sleeve as a yes. "Tch. Hogwarts and selling self so cheap. Idiot."

He didn't remember what he had said in reply, some childish wail about the unfairness of it all and only being given a chance. He remembered, vividly, her reply though. "Not world's fault if you have brain of flea."

"I was Head Boy," he had snapped right back, which gave her pause. She had blinked slowly, jet eyes glittering in the lamplight.

"Maybe I have job for you," she murmured softly and led him away from the red-eyed vampire. For a job, he would have followed her anywhere, but where he ended up was a restaurant far nicer than anything he'd been to before. The goblin, he learned over a steak dinner, was a ballsy Egyptian entrepreneur named Rikah there in London on vacation. Where most goblins liked managing wizards' treasure hordes, she preferred to amass her own.

Simply put, she was a tomb raider. For Gringotts, of course, but no semi-law-abiding goblin wasn't. She had a curse breaker looking to break free the second his contract expired and wanted a replacement ready to pick up where he left off. A cheap replacement. Being a particularly religious being, as goblins went, Rikah considered stumbling across a desperate Hogwarts Head Boy in a London slum alley kismet.

To Bill, Rikah was salvation and the closest thing to a shark he had come across on dry land. She had unrolled an aggressive ten-year contract after dinner convinced him to sign it before dessert. He started on pay immediately, received free room and board and Rikah would cover the expense of his apprenticeship. Everything, she warned, would be taken from his future pay upon his achieving Journeyman status, but he had merely took that as incentive to learn the trade fast.

The other warning he ignored was that Gringotts, as her backer, reserved the right to place him wherever it deemed his services would be "most profitable."

The punishments for breaking with the contract weren't so much warnings as dire death threats.

Bill looked himself over in the bathroom mirror. Long story short, after seven years of a fulfilling career, he was suddenly back to being pressured to become a whore. Only this time, if he wanted to live, he didn't dare say no.

o0|0o

The only thing that got him out of the bathroom was to treat it like he was preparing to break into a tomb. He pulled down one long tunic sleeve and eyed his wand holster. It was the kind with the leather cap at the wrist end. Good. It was a seemingly pointless feature, but Bill knew from experience with tomb robbers that the little cap foiled the Expelliarmus spell nine times out of ten. He preferred not to think about the tenth.

He was armed. That just left the girlfriend. Conjuring paper and quill, he jotted down a quick apology and hissy fit. After folding it, he caught a young man attempting to leave though the door. He was a primly pressed, bookish type. His employee badge, a gold coin, was on a cord, not a chain, meaning he was a wage earner and not under blood contract. Bill tried not to hate him for it as he pushed the note into the bloke's hands. "Do you know Fleur Delacour?" he asked rhetorically. "Give this to her."

As the bank employee wandered away on his errand, already smiling dreamily, the hapless curse breaker steeled himself for a night spent with a far less pleasant blonde.

o0|0o

Malfoy was waiting in the vestibule when Bill arrived at the carriage entrance. The boy was seated, chatting amicably with a slim matron dressed in a fashionable variation on the traditional druggist's smock. She stood beside a two-seat buggy with a pale violet crest stamped into the dark wood. Bill realized that she must be Rowena Vane of the Essex Vanes, the prominent herbologist and apothecary.

What she was doing smiling at a Malfoy, he had no idea. He wasn't given much chance to find out. Still seated, the boy kissed her hand and she promptly entered the buggy, took up the reins herself, and guided her Frisian gelding down the sunny cobbled street.

"Well then, shall we?"

Bill looked back at Malfoy. The smile he found was cool, polite, and about as genuine as leprechaun gold.

"It's your show, sir," he replied. His polite veneer was much more transparent than the teenager's, but he reckoned there should be points given for effort. The clang of metal on stone signaled the arrival of the carriage. The monstrous contraption that pulled up to the doors was no buggy and, in Bill's opinion, would trample to death any passerby that dared to call it such.

Malfoy was the one to step up to the door and gesture for Bill to enter first with the wave of a long-fingered hand. Yet again, the Weasley was reminded of a spider at home in its web, waiting patiently for him to entangle himself.

He wondered, briefly, if the fly ever saw it coming, as he climbed up the two wrought iron steps into the cabin.

A goblin was seated in the rear-facing bench. It wasn't Hoprik, thankfully, but Bill wasn't exactly thrilled to see her. Rikah, his bond owner and sometimes friend, didn't looked pleased. Homical, actually. With a manicured claw, she pointedly jabbed the bench next to him. In Egyptian, in a deceptively nice tone, she told him, "Sign this, keep silent, and treat the child like an acid trap on a hair trigger. If you mess this up, Bill, fond of you or not I will have your bones for jewelry."

He nodded and took the quill, but remarked coldly in the same tongue, "Why are you selling me so cheap?"

She made an upset clicking noise and glowered. "I would gut that puffed-up pig if I could." Her voice lowered into a murmur, "Bill, I know wives with their husband's ear and daughters under contract with Hoprik. I can ruin him with this, before the week is out. You will be moved back to Egypt. You will be given restitution. I swear it! But if you don't do this, you will die and your family will be fined into debt they will never escape from. So, please, just sign the damned thing."

He scrawled a signature on the gobbledygook legal document she was holding without another word. The parchment flared gold and rolled up tight as a clam as soon as he finished the loop of the 'y.' Bill was left staring at the severed remains of the quill. That was one serious piece of legalese.

'_Merlin's beard, what did she make me sign now?'_

Malfoy entered the carriage. Rikah grasped both ends of the rolled parchment and pulled. With a crack not unlike an exploding Christmas party favor, the document separated into two identical twins. One was handed to Malfoy, who uncurled it, skimmed, nodded, and allowed it to snap shut again. The other went into Rikah's carpet bag.

From the same small clutch, she withdrew a slim Gringotts book and passed it to Bill. It engorged in his hands and dropped heavily onto his knees. It was the Malfoy book and every bit as heavy as he remembered.

Rikah stood and bowed to Malfoy. "Good day, sir," she intoned, reverting back to English.

"Good day," he replied with a nod.

"I will take my leave, then. If you need me, I shall be in Africa, on business." With a final apologetic look to Bill and a loud crack, she was gone on the breeze. The carriage door latched shut, and Bill felt the wheels lurch forward as their journey began.

o0|0o

There was silence for a time. Bill twisted in his seat to stare out the window. They had passed from the ancient cobbled street to a modern Muggle approximation that circled a statue. Unfortunately, they were out of the roundabout and onto a Wizarding high road before he could get a good look at the towering thing. They wound through parks and under buildings, on occasion slowing to join oblivious muggle traffic.

Once, they even drew even with a buggy laden down with a colorfully dressed muggle family. He watched them busily point various cameras at every available thing but the ornate stagecoach directly to their right. Bill found himself able to smile at the couple and their rambunctious children despite the circumstances. They were happy and damn the world and its opinion. Distinctly Weasley, those Muggles were.

The light changed, they moved on, and the heavy dread settled back onto Bill's shoulders. Too soon, they were trotting down to the Thames. Free of most muggle obstructions, the stagecoach sped across the water at dizzying speed. He was forced to look away as the view through the curtained window stretched a nauseating blue-gray blur.

It wasn't exactly calming to discover himself under the inscrutable gaze of his traveling companion. The buzz of anger in his chest didn't mix well with the fluttering in his stomach. "Something the matter?" he asked, against Rikah's warning to keep quiet.

Malfoy adopted an almost doting look. "Nothing to worry your pretty head about." Bill bit the inside of his cheek. Anger was now beating out the nausea. "But for the sake of conversation…I trying to guess your inseam."

Never mind. Nausea was making a comeback.

The boy cocked his head. "You're of a height, and the shoulders are the same, at least. It should fit."

"What should fit?"

"My father's wardrobe. Appealing as whatever you're wearing is, I can't have you wandering about the manor in it."

Bill glanced down at his habitual ensemble of a loose tunic, waist sash, and breeches tucked into tall boots. It was typical garb in northern Africa, robes being reserved for elders, officials, formal occasions, and particularly vicious sandstorms. There was absolutely nothing wrong with it.

But judging by Malfoy's startling paleness, he had never gotten direct sun in his life, let alone been to a desert clime.

"Whatever," Bill said. "…Sir."

The teenager laughed. "I think we should drop the formalities at this point…" he unwound the glowing scrolled and scanned the bottom, "…William." He repeated the word more slowly. "William. You're no doubt wondering what the hell you're doing here."

Bill grimaced. "I'm convenient cheap labor and you're curious how long I'll last before I try to hex that damned smirk off your face." He didn't mention his third selling point.

"…Or perhaps you already have a good idea. Any questions?"

"Will I be fed and watered?"

"Medium or well-done?" Malfoy asked in reply. "Anything else?"

Oh, yes. Bill's mouth thinned into a line, unwilling to even voice the question. Instead he forced himself to look back out at the landscape rushing by. Judging by the green, they were past the river and back onto the mainland. Still, he felt twinges of seasickness.

"Sleeping arrangements, perhaps?"

Bill swallowed but said nothing.

"Wow," Malfoy breathed, clearly impressed. "Not a word. What _did_ that creature threaten you with?" In answer the boy received a baleful glare, but that only seemed to egg him on. "What? Whipping? Eight rounds with a troll? Death by hanging? By drawing and quartering? Flesh-eating beetles? Speeding trolley car?"

"Isn't just death enough?" the redhead snapped.

After a pause, Malfoy shrugged, "I suppose, but it sounds frightfully boring by comparison."

"So sorry I couldn't oblige you." With that Bill, turned fully towards the window and ignored his tormentor for the rest of the trip.

o0|0o

Draco was, at his estimate, three parts amused and one part wondering what he was thinking. Malfoy-Weasley feud, teenage libido, and the dark part inside of him that laughed at others' misfortune set aside, what the hell was he thinking! He was goading a temperamental, adult wizard that, judging from the look of things, could and would pry his limbs from his sockets, and why?

He sighed. Quite simply, if he had to think about account balances for another instant in the next four hours, he was going to throw himself from the speeding stagecoach and pray he broke his neck on a rock.

The afterlife had to be simpler than this living hell.

On the off chance that it was just more of the same, though, he leaned back and studied the mute William Weasley. He was red-haired and blue-eyed much like rest of that lot, though he was a tall sort, not the more common short and stocky model. His posture was twisted in pure avoidance, but this inadvertently exposed several features that fascinated the young Malfoy heir.

Turning to the window had given Draco a prime view of his long neck and the underside of his jaw. The long tunic went down to the man's knees, but was slitted on the sides. In presenting his traveling companion with his profile, he also presented a tightly clad leg from ankle to hip. Of course, in Wizarding culture, anything past the knee was considered extremely distracting. Finally, a tanned torso peeked through the tunic's parted front opening.

Yes, Draco was interested. He had a pulse, didn't he?

And that was why the clothes had to go. Draco was sure it was a fine, serviceable uniform in Africa. Weasley and the ugly she-goblin in his carriage had been conversing in Egyptian. Together with the man's nearly bone-deep tan and Draco's very vague childhood recollection of his family's short exile on the African continent, it wasn't hard to deduce that his human purchase was used to working out of the Sahara. No doubt crawling about in tombs, being a curse breaker. Draco wouldn't fancy dying of heat stroke or getting his robe snagged in a deadly, booby-trapped maze, so in that respect the wardrobe made sense.

But being that the man was in England, the wardrobe was damned provocative.

Being that he was being provoked, he was considering availing himself of Weasley's services.

Being that Weasley could rip him in two if he tried, he was frightened for his continued existence.

Being that he now knew the man had only entered his stagecoach on the pain of death…

"Pass that account book here, William," he snapped and spent the rest of the journey home burying himself in the numbers.

* * *

_A conspicuously Voldemort-free chapter…I got side tracked with Bill's past and decided to leave it for another time. Draco is slowly worming his way into the spotlight here. He still thinks Bill (sorry, "William") attractive but finds it safer to concentrate on the book. It is an important part of the plot, that book, though I doubt anyone will be able to figure out what Draco is doing with it._

Story Alert and Stay Tuned for the next installment:

wherein there shall be various states of undress and Voldemort, this time I do solemnly swear.


End file.
